Murmur (Pierce Securities Book 5) Page 11

  If he started the relationship with her that he wanted, he’d be distracted beyond reason and would jeopardize her safety.

  He was glad the fighting was over, too. She was a lady, a socialite, someone who might someday want to get back into the public eye. And he was a fighter, working for a security company, and had a law degree he never used. At least the security company stuff wasn’t public knowledge. The existence of the firm at all was kept to a minimum in the news. They weren’t a high-profile company.

  Valerie didn’t need a thug on her arm. He was through fighting, but there was still evidence of it on his face. Quinten had a black eye, a cut on his eyebrow, and a busted lip. He would make himself respectable again, close this damn case, and then he would make his move.

  That was the plan, anyway.

  So he didn’t sleep that night, anticipation of closing this case coursing through his veins so he could give in to the need running rampant in his head.

  Valerie couldn’t stop watching Quinten in her space. As strange as it seemed, he fit in perfectly. If she had seen him in the grocery store or something—not that she had been to a grocery store in years—she wouldn’t have thought it possible. He was rough, huge, rugged—everything her comfortable, understated furnishings weren’t. His biceps stretched the gray pullover he wore until she thought the threads would rip open when he flexed. His chest was broad—massive, actually. And his thighs filled out the casual denim he wore to where she thought they would burst at the seams. His hair was cut conservatively, yet showed an unruliness that had Valerie wondering what it would feel like if she tousled it. His face was chiseled, his nose had been broken since the photo she’d found of him in his youth, and his jaw had squared out with age. His eyes were a dark, tumultuous brown, the depths of which showed an intelligence she wasn’t accustomed to.

  She was addicted to watching him. Imagining him without clothes on. Wondering what sex with him would be like. And then hating herself for believing that sort of thing could happen between them.

  His days were now being spent in the room adjoining her sleeping quarters, going through every file she had with her lawyer. She could hear him shuffling through papers, his eyes almost audibly crawling over the pages, his pen scratching notes, the keys clicking on his laptop. His soft sighs as he digested information were maddening, lending themselves to all sorts of lurid images in her mind. She watched him through her video monitors, interspersed with watching the video of his fight. Watching him fight was a reminder of the man who was protecting her, the lengths he was capable of for her safety, and it was a total turn-on.

  Like now. As she stood in the doorway of the sunroom he was using for his office space, her mouth was dry as she watched his rough hands work the mouse of his computer, the calloused knuckles giving away the fact he used them for something rough outside an office space. Even with the uncultivated implications, the way he was comfortable with his laptop showed an intrinsic cerebral intellect in the man who had captured her attention.

  Valerie cleared her throat to make him aware of her presence. Even if she had been staring at him nonstop for three days, she didn’t like being a creeper.

  When Quinten looked up, there was no surprise on his face, proving he’d been aware of her standing there watching him.

  “Thank you.”

  His bushy eyebrows wrinkled together. “For what?”

  “For adjusting your assignment to make me feel safe. I appreciate it.”

  He smiled at her, emphasizing the chiseled features of his face, brackets framing his mouth. “That’s my job, Ms. Dunaway. I’m happy to do it.” His voice lowered as he shifted the laptop to his lap and shut the lid, cradling it almost. “I wanted to point out to you that the lock of the shop wasn’t forced or broken.”

  Valerie swallowed. “I know. Someone had a key.”

  “Or a good lock pick kit.” Quinten shrugged, his eyes never leaving her face. “Did you watch the videos from the gym?”

  Good lord, had she. “Yes. I didn’t see anybody on the first run-through, but I was planning on watching again.” And again. Seeing Quinten in another element had very nearly undone her. She had been so distracted by the striking figure—fighting with nothing short of grace and an undeniably feral power—she hadn’t seen much else.

  Clearing her throat, she motioned to the papers strewn around Quinten on the couch and tables. “Did you see anything in the transcripts or the trust paperwork?”

  He shuffled some of the papers, suddenly busy. It didn’t jive with the Quinten she’d observed—the Quinten with quiet efficiency. Quinten didn’t make movements without a purpose.

  “Um, actually, no. Not the transcripts. Your lawyer handled everything exactly as I would have if I had been your attorney.” He cleared his throat. “So I’m reading them again, focusing on your ex-husband, looking for something incriminating that might lead me to believe he’d been planning retribution. Unfortunately, transcripts are just verbal. I can’t look at body language.” His voice actually cracked at the words “body language” and his eyes snapped to her face from the papers he’d been shuffling on his laptop. Still looking toward his lap, he asked her, “Do you remember anything that stands out about the trial in general?”

  Valerie had been thinking about that lately, but unfortunately, the only thing she could find in the recesses of those memories was the reporter who’d been tossed out by the judge on contempt charges. “There was a reporter, the only one who actually treated me like a human during the trial coverage, who got thrown out when he stood up and shouted at Argyle during the sentencing hearing.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry, but that’s the only thing that stood out to me. I’ve done a lot of work trying to forget the trial, honestly. Jenene says that’s not healthy, but whatever.” She smiled ruefully at him, and his eyes snapped to her lips and stayed there.

  Was it possible he felt the same heat with her? She wanted to ask him something personal, something that would give her a clue to his feelings about her, but she had no idea what. And she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. His words still echoed in her head, solidifying what she’d initially thought. This was a job—one he was happy to do, but still a job. He hadn’t said or done anything to make her think otherwise, besides a slight hitching of his voice and his eyes constantly looking at her mouth.

  Even though right now, they were locked on her eyes, as if trying to penetrate her mask.

  Valerie hated the mask, even though she still thought it was necessary. If he wasn’t trying to look beyond it, he would be focused on her scars, and those were revolting. But part of her actually wanted to show this man her face again. She was that comfortable with him. He hadn’t seemed repulsed when he’d seen her the other night, if the thickness against her thigh were evidence, but she couldn’t trust that. At the same time, though, there was that niggling doubt—the voice in her head that was getting smaller—saying she was hideous.

  An involuntary shudder wracked her body, and she crossed her arms against his gaze. Ever intuitive, Quinten dropped his gaze to the papers in his lap, and he focused on putting them in a neat stack on the side table.

  “I’ll be finishing up the trust paperwork tonight probably, but there are some odd things with the fee structure. Is there any other paperwork I can look at? Billing for the trial, for instance? I can see if he’s been ripping you off for a while or if this was a one-time thing. Although, he practically admitted it when you fired him, but you might be able to file suit against him for it.”

  Thankful for the change of subject, Valerie nodded, not trusting her voice. She did manage to squeak out a “Sure” before turning to go.

  “Ms. Dunaway…” Quinten’s deep voice stopped her in her tracks, but she didn’t turn. A pregnant pause followed, and he sighed gently.

  “I really am happy to protect you. I want you to feel safe with me.”

  Looking over her shoulder was a mistake. His eyes held something she dared not hope for, and it reached inside her and held
her in a death grip. She didn’t know how to respond, so she simply said, “I’ll show you where all my files are. You can look through them at your leisure.”

  Her files from the lawyer were in her office, off her bedroom. She wasn’t sure she wanted him that close to her sleeping space, but it would be silly to bring everything in here.

  She heard him rise from the sofa and follow. Taking a deep breath, she led the way. Letting this man into the last vestiges of her sanctuary was going to mess with her head. She just knew it.

  “Quinten.” He’d been watching the gym footage again, and Brandon wasn’t there. He was about to punch something, but his phone ringing had distracted him before he could damage any property.

  “Hollerman here. Just wanted to let you know the search on the guy you fought, A.K.A. Tommy Pell, has turned up some interesting stuff.”

  “Yeah?” Quinten’s ears perked up, along with his heartrate. This was coming to a head; he could feel it.

  “Yeah. He makes a regular drive almost a hundred miles to dispose of shelter kills every week. He’s supposed to drop them off at the county dump for a little extra cash, but this week, he didn’t make it.”

  “So he’s the guy who got into her workshop?” It didn’t make sense. What would The Grynderr gain from terrorizing Valerie?

  “Not necessarily. He was in Huntsville with Argyle Ford two years ago.”

  “So they knew each other?”

  “Not necessarily,” Hollerman repeated, his voice a pointed drawl. Quinten wanted to clock the guy for being so fucking relaxed about all this. “There’s no evidence they actually knew each other, yet. But I’m still looking. I have a buddy who’s a guard over there in the unit they were in. I can ask him. Check schedules and see if they had kitchen duty together or something. But it’s going to be slow going.”

  “I’ll see if I can get Evan on it. That shit would be on a computer somewhere, right?”

  “I’m not sure they even keep old work schedules, but if they did, I’d imagine they’d be on a computer somewhere.”

  “Then Evan can find it,” Quinten said resolutely, as if saying it out loud would make it so.

  “I know nothing about that, you hear?”

  “Any hits on the fingerprints from the workshop?”

  “None. It was clean. Hers were the only ones there. Dude wore gloves.”

  Quinten pinched the bridge of his nose, semi-aware this was his brother’s gesture. It beat throwing his phone at the window, though.

  “So where are we?”

  “We are chasing half a dozen leads until we catch this guy, that’s where. I’ve got this part covered. You just keep her safe.”

  Quinten was outside stretching, and Valerie was a captive audience. Okay, not captive; she could walk away any time. Should walk away. But she indulged in a fantasy as she watched from the sunroom overlooking the yard where Quinten had been stretching all afternoon, it seemed. Workout clothes, sweat, positions that outlined body parts she shouldn’t be picturing. It was all highly inappropriate, yet she was a slave to the fantasy it invoked.

  Valerie had never lived so long with her heart in her throat. The past few days with Quinten in her personal domain were a torturous bliss. She couldn’t explain it. He never did anything, but his silent presence was a constant reminder of his virility. She waited for her mask to slip, for his revulsion to surface, but so far, nothing.

  And there was no sign of her stalker, either, which worried her, too.

  It had been three days since he’d broken into her workspace and violated that sanctuary. She couldn’t think of a single place she’d touched he hadn’t desecrated.

  That was the biggest reason she thought Argyle was behind this. When they were married, he’d been so adamantly against her charity work and modeling—intent on keeping her as a toy for his pleasure. Now that he was out of the picture, the stalker was still managing to ruin her charity work and was toying with her mercilessly. She’d found a way to do good without her face, and now half the pieces she had in her shop were ruined, tainted, unsellable. She’d had Quinten get rid of them.

  Even so, she knew Argyle wasn’t the man who’d been in her home, who’d acted as if he’d owned it, who knew where she kept her spoons and remote control for the TV.

  Austin was a no-kill city, as far as animals went. The fact the animals came from a shelter in another town—which had already killed them but hadn’t disposed of them yet—was almost more alarming than just killing animals. It required a planning and forethought that was downright creepy.

  Quinten had told her about his opponent in the ring being the one to pick up the animals, but he hadn’t thought the same guy put them in her workshop. She was trusting his gut on this because it all made her own head spin. She cursed herself for ever getting involved with Argyle in the first place, though. If it hadn’t been for him, Valerie was pretty sure none of this would be happening.

  She wasn’t sleeping. Not with Quinten in the very next room. And it didn’t sound like he slept much, either. She made a note to get a new bedframe for the guest room because she heard every flip he made on the squeaky bed. And it brought a slew of erotic images she was only tormenting herself with.

  She had really shot herself in the foot, asking him—no, ordering him—to stay in her private quarters. Sure, she felt safer with him here, but she also felt nervous, antsy, like she was about to say the wrong thing.

  She was just a job to him. A job he took seriously and did well. She had no business making it anything more. As if he would want her ugliness, anyway.

  At five a.m., Quinten was up and showered, making coffee in the kitchen area, when the housekeeper pulled up to the back of the house and into the garage. He watched her on the monitor in the kitchen, and when she started unloading armfuls of packages, Quinten walked out to meet her and help with her things.

  His mama had taught him well.

  “Imogene?” He didn’t want to startle her, but he’d apparently failed, as the large woman slammed her head into the trunk lid of her small economy car. “I’m sorry. I’m Quinten. Ms. Dunaway has hired me for security. Let me help you.” He grabbed a load of bags and packages from her trunk and closed the lid, following the woman inside.

  “I’m glad to meet you. She needs someone here with her. Not for safety reasons, although that’s good, too. I’m talking sanity, though. It’s just not right for a young lady like her to be alone all the time.”

  Quinten liked her already. Not a single inner fiber of his buzzed around her, and he trusted his inner fibers. She was a round woman, and tall, taller than Valerie even. She wore leggings and a man’s work shirt, with the sleeves rolled up.

  “So what’s the routine?”

  “I usually get some food going first, and then I clean.” She shrugged as she set the packages down on the kitchen table and started rummaging through them. “Valerie cooks, but I love to cook, so I make her a pot of soup and I’ll try out a new casserole recipe on her. I do her shopping and her cleaning. Mostly in this area. The rest of the house doesn’t require much, just a little airing, dusting, and vacuuming. Even so, I’ll be here all day.”

  “Well, my team and I will be around, too. Holler if you need anything. I’m shadowing Ms. Dunaway, but I’ll probably pop in on you, too. Let me know if anything looks strange or out of place?”

  “No problem. You slice veggies?”

  “Like a boss.” Quinten grinned at the woman, who was like he’d wished his mom had been, only she was just a little older than him. Grabbing some of the garlic she’d put in front of him, he got busy.

  When Valerie woke up and came stumbling out of the bedroom, she mumbled a sleepy greeting to Imogene and Quinten and made her way to the coffee pot. Today, she wore a flesh-colored mask with silver sequins on it, still in the peignoir set she’d had on last night. Quinten averted his eyes, afraid he was broadcasting the thoughts of slowly stripping her bare.

  “Mornin’, Ms. Valerie. I see you got some help
around here. He’s good, too. If you’re not careful, I may just slip him into the trunk of my car when I leave.” Imogene winked at Quinten, and he felt Valerie’s gaze, heavy on him. Feeling his ears heat, knowing they were bright red, he turned away and resumed chopping.

  “I’ve enjoyed having him around. You can’t have him, Imogene. I don’t think Pete would appreciate you bringing home another man, anyway.” She snorted softly to herself. “And if he fits in your trunk, I’ll give you my grandmother’s emeralds.”

  “Yeah, probably not,” Imogene groused.

  Quinten grunted, suddenly uncomfortable, and managed to make a polite escape while letting the hens cackle in the kitchen. Imogene said something, and Valerie giggled, sending goose bumps across his skin while his cock throbbed. Her giggle was the sweetest, sexiest fucking sound he’d ever heard in his life.

  In the sunroom, he thought hard. Was he doing it again? Was he falling in love with a woman because she was available? Well, not available. He wouldn’t use that word to describe Valerie. But he’d thought he was in love with Miriam for a while and had later agreed with her it was probably because she was with him all day every day. Miriam had been comfortable. Most importantly, she was different from the women he was usually exposed to—the bunnies at the fights. Was that the case here? Was he falling for Valerie because she was different? Then why didn’t he fall for the Saudi Princess he’d watched for two weeks? Or one of that passel of women who were clearly in danger in Mystic? Quinten valued silence, introspection, and someone who knew themselves. And so did Valerie.

  He wasn’t going to lie to himself and say he didn’t want to settle down with a woman who understood him and could make him happy. He wanted to make someone else happy, too. He wanted to spend his days being part of a couple, sort of like his parents but more loving.

  The elder Pierces had been a fiercely loyal couple. Whatever one wanted, the other did, too. Dad had wanted Quinten to follow in his footsteps, so Mom had insisted on the law degree, even after Dad had died. They went everywhere together, did everything together, and supported each other in all ways. They just weren’t very loving. He couldn’t think of another word for it, but they hardly touched, and he’d never seen them kiss on the lips.